


How to Make a Demon Swoon

by shoshe_anders



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 05:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20168812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoshe_anders/pseuds/shoshe_anders
Summary: The angel and demon have a love for poetry and wine. With feelings as sweet as the vintage they're drinking, sappiness is bound to blossom.





	How to Make a Demon Swoon

**Author's Note:**

> A special thanks to def-not and fiveaces for beta reading and editing. You're the real MVPs.

“Love seeketh not Itself to please,  
Nor for itself hath any care;  
But for another gives its ease,  
And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.”

Crowley’s attention was pulled from the spider expanding his web in the corner of the room as the angel in the chair opposite him broke the silence. He brought his glass of vintage red away from his lips and arched a brow.

“Any reason you're serenading me with ‘The Clod and The Pebble,’ angel?”

Aziraphale tilted his book of poems towards his face, hiding his mouth as he squeaked with a small hiccup.“I'm intoxicated and feeling terribly sentimental,” he confessed, as if the present company wasn’t already well aware. 

The demon snorted in amusement and swirled the last of his wine in his glass before swallowing it down. “As one does.” Crowley shifted in his sprawled position on the couch, tossing a leg over the back of it. “I like it when you get proper wasted and start going to Wilde.” 

“Well, it's Blake and Bryon this afternoon.” Arizaphale said matter-of-factly. He paused, squinting at the dusty stack of books next to the coffee table. “Perhaps Wilde after another glass.” He had always held Wilde in special regard. 

“‘She walks in beauty, like the night. Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright.’” Crowley recited in return. He watched as Aziraphale’s face lit up at the poem and felt his own chest puff with pride. “See? I remember things. And you say I don't read enough.” Crowley was nearly slurring at this point, but neither of them seemed particularly bothered. “I mean, I don't. But I remember that from when you read it aloud. Sappy angel," he tutted, though fondness was heavy in his tone. "Please don't tell me you're going to start speaking to me entirely in stanzas." He reached over to the nearly empty bottle on the table to replenish his glass.

Aziraphale set the book down by his chair and got to his feet on teetering legs. With a soft hiccup, he wandered to the wine rack to pick out another bottle of red for the two of them. "As tempting as it is, I don't have the concentration to make it as pretty as I would like to. I would only embarrass myself, I'm sure." He popped the cork from the bottle and set it on the cluttered table between them before settling back down in his plush chair. 

The angel felt incredibly lucky. A quiet evening of drinking alone had turned into a quiet evening of drinking with company, which was ineffably better.

"Your voice sounds nice regardless of what it's saying,." Crowley drawled, taking a sip of wine. He pursed his lips in thought. "Take that back, sounds less nice when you're nagging me. So let's stick with purely compliments as of now." 

Aziraphale fought the urge to slick out his tongue, and settled on a fond “harrumph.” It wouldn’t be difficult to stick to compliments, not when they were both so sweetened with drink. "You always seem to come when I call. I have to say that your lot has angels beat when it comes to punctuality," he commented, breaking the silence that had come over them both.

The demon shrugged his shoulders when the other mentioned Crowley's willingness to drop everything in regards him. It may hold some truth, but he had a reputation to uphold here. "I would never say no to wine," he remarked, as if he hasn't come to Aziraphale's aid without the promise of alcohol numerous times already. "Ironic isn't it? You think demons would be the fashionably late ones."

"No. No. No. No. I feel like most angels lack _urgency._ There's a casualness to intervention. The hopefulness that whatever is being asked will sort itself out on its own before we have to interfere," Aziraphale replied. He smiled and ran his fingers up and down the neck of his glass idly as he thought it over. "No, you demons want the credit. Bragging rights. Whatever. Souls." He waved his hand airily. "You just jump at the opportunity for action. I admire it." 

There were plenty of things about Crowley that he admired. Punctuality was fairly low on the list when he actually considered it.

"Is that what you're going to tell me the next time you run late when we plan lunch?" Crowley deadpanned, taking another sip of his wine. He laughed. "I suppose that does make sense: demons would be the ones to jump at the chance, we're a competitive lot. Thankfully, humans make it wonderfully easy for me to take credit for the messes they make, which puts me up top."  
Crowley felt his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, so he took them off entirely and set them down on the table. "Why, angel, are you telling me a pure being such as yourself _admires_ Hell's finest?" He teased. "Better say you like me best, or I might get jealous over here."

"I don't mind making you jealous. It fuels your fire." Arizaphale quipped, meeting Crowley's gaze as a sharp grin curled across the demon’s lips. The piercing yellow of Crowley’s eyes warmed Aziraphale’s chest, causing a flush to run up his neck and into his cheeks. He squirmed slightly at the undivided attention and looked down to the glass in his hand. "I'm not sure that it's Hell's finest that I'm admiring,” he continued. “Besides, isn't punctuality a virtue? If not, it should be." 

Crowley shrugged, fairly certain that it wasn’t. Nor should it be. The tube ran on time, but that was like Hell on tracks. Taxes were on time, and many regarded those as a damnable inconvenience. 

Aziraphale reached for the wine bottle, topping each of their glasses off. He hiccuped again and settled back, stretching his short legs out in front of him. "Saying that I like you best wouldn't exactly be news now, would it? It's all too obvious." He would offer that much, at least. Any more, Crowley would have to coax out of him.

Crowley’s lips quirked up at Aziraphale’s admission. It only took a few thousand years to squeeze that out of him, no rush. "Oh, you _like_ making me jealous, eh? Is that why you got so chummy with that Wilde way back when?" Crowley asked. He may have made a chair or two break whenever that stupidly charming poet had invited Aziraphale to sit right on his lap. Honestly, the gall on that guy. Crowley took another gulp of wine as Aziraphale topped them both off again. 

"Maybe you liking me most wouldn’t exactly be a reason to alert the media, but it doesn't mean I dislike hearing it," Crowley continued. "I suppose, out of every celestial being I've been ever so lucky enough to come into contact with, you're not too bad yourself." He smirked, leaning over the edge of the couch towards Aziraphale.

"You going to make me swoon with poetry now, or what?"

"Only if you may actually swoon," Aziraphale retorted, leaning down to pick up a book from the floor. "Finish your glass and I'll begin. I'm too aware of how sober you are in comparison to myself, my dear." 

Aziraphale licked his index finger and flipped through several pages to find the perfect piece. He considered looking for the ones he knew were written specifically for him, but there was no need to show off.

“I'm having fun being sober...ish and watching you," Crowley remarked, gazing over the collection of empty wine bottles that had began to clutter the intimate sitting area. "You ever see me swoon a day in my life, angel?" 

"I can't say that I have seen you swoon before. I've seen plenty swoon over you though."

Crowley snorted, shaking his head as he once again looked fondly to the other. Aziraphale let out another hiccup. _Such a sappy drunk._ Though, in all honesty, they both were. The only difference was that Aziraphale would admit that out loud, while Crowley refused. 

Crowley watched Aziraphale scan page after page of poems he knew the angel had memorized. "Picky, picky, picky," he singsonged, crossing his ankles. 

Aziraphale's smile only grew at his teasing. He _was_ picky. He _was_ fussy. He was sure to take his time, especially because he knew Crowley would interpret whatever he chose as the angel speaking directly to him through the words of mortals. Stricken with indecision, Aziraphale set the book in his hands down for a new one. His tongue flicked over his lips as he hiccuped again before finally deciding. 

"’Drink to me only with thine eyes  
And I will pledge with mine.  
Or leave a kiss but in the cup  
And I’ll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise  
Doth ask a drink divine;  
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,  
I would not change for thine.’"

Crowley let out a breath as Aziraphale finished the poem. He was surprised Aziraphale hadn’t picked one of Shakespeare's. Though it was in the same sort of realm, really. Not quite a sonnet, but 'shall I compare thee to a summer's day?' would’ve been just a tiny bit on the cliche side, wouldn't it? 

Aziraphale had a lovely voice, even when it was slightly blurred with alcohol. Crowley might be biased though: in his humble opinion, Aziraphale had a lovely everything. He looked toward the other, eyes uncharacteristically soft as he listened to the words that left plush pink lips. 

"Not bad, angel," he hummed, a dumb little smile coming to his features instead of the usual sharp grin. "I like your taste."

Aziraphale took another long sip of wine before standing. He tucked the book under his chin and moved behind his armchair to scoot the antique against the worn wooden floor, stopping once he was close enough to the couch to prop his feet up on the cushion over Crowley's legs.

The contact was innocent, but it set off fireworks in Aziraphale’s chest. He opened the yellowing pages of his book once again, smoothing his hands over the print of the title page. "I'm surprised you don't find it too stuffy. You seem to have a love for more modern poetry. Freddie Mercury, for example." 

Crowley snorted as his hand went to rest atop the angel's leg. He drummed his fingers against the expensive fabric of his trousers. They had always been touchy with each other. More so when drunk. Crowley could name dozens of times he’d draped an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders before leaning in so he could 'tempt' him to lunch. This seemed far more intimate. 

"I have a soft spot for all things uppity and posh it seems. No idea where that came from." Crowley shrugged, looking straight to Aziraphale as he said it. "I wouldn't quite call Freddie Mercury a poet though,” Crowley continued. “The man did give out sage advice in the form of confusing quotes, and he _did_ have the romanticism of one. But all poets have that…” He waved his hand in the air as he searched for the word that was eluding him. "That lovey aura. That must be why they're all so fond of you, creature of love."

Aziraphale let a breath out through his nose as Crowley skillfully stroked his ego. "I think it's easy for artists–for loving beings–to attract angels. It's just such a pity that they are also terribly susceptible to temptation. They're always searching for something bigger than themselves when love isn't enough…," Aziraphale replied, thoughtful. He paused for a moment, swishing the wine in his glass. "Or when love is too much... It's so hard for them to find that balance." 

He slouched further in his seat, putting his legs deeper onto Crowley's lap so Crowley’s hand would slide up just a bit higher. The poet in Aziraphale was looking for something dangerous as well, and the demon was eager to supply his demand. "Just one more, before you get bored of me, dear. As far as a Victorian verse goes, I do enjoy this:

‘I love your lips when they’re wet with wine  
And red with a wild desire;  
I love your eyes when the lovelight lies  
Lit with a passionate fire.  
I love your arms when the warm white flesh  
Touches mine in a fond embrace;  
I love your hair when the strands enmesh  
Your kisses against my face.

Not for me the cold, calm kiss  
Of a virgin’s bloodless love;  
Not for me the saint’s white bliss,  
Nor the heart of a spotless dove.  
But give me the love that so freely gives  
And laughs at the whole world’s blame,  
With your body so young and warm in my arms,  
It sets my poor heart aflame.’"

Aziraphale paused as he finished. The air around them felt different after he had spoken this truth. His eyes remained glued to the page in front of him, nervous to look at the expression on Crowley’s face. 

The demon's eyes slid up to look at the other's soft features. He regarded the flush on the angel’s face and assumed it was from the wine. How he hoped it was from something else. His hand moved from the angel's thigh and snaked up until he was tugging at Aziraphale’s waistcoat to pull him closer. The tugs scooted Aziraphale’s chair right against the edge of the couch. With no where else for it to go, soon Aziraphale was pulled from his seat and over the reclining demon.

"Congratulations, angel," Crowley remarked, his breath washing over Aziraphale’s warm skin. He could smell the fancy cologne that clung onto him. "You managed to make a demon swoon. I suppose that deserves a prize. Wouldn't you agree?"

Aziraphale shifted as he made himself comfortable in Crowley’s lap and offered a nervous, coquettish smile. "H-Have I?' he asked, more pleased with himself than he would admit. "What do you think would be an... an appropriate prize for such an accomplishment?" he asked, opening his eyes again to look over the face he had been memorizing for nearly 6000 years. 

Crowley smacked his lips and tilted his head back to look at the ceiling as he considered the question. His lanky arms were wrapped around Aziraphale’s middle, and he drummed his fingers against the small of his back. “Shut your eyes, angel,” he said, dropping his sharp gaze back to Aziraphale’s face. “Don’t look at me like that. Come on now, don’t you trust me?” 

Crowley’s pupils constricted into mischievous slits as they worked their way down to the angel’s pink lips. 

Aziraphale hesitated before letting his eyes fall shut. He felt Crowley grow closer, but he remained steadfast. 

There was a soft breath against his lips just before the space between them was closed. Crowley’s lips pushed against Aziraphale’s for a sweet moment before pulling away once again. 

Crowley shifted to the edge of the cushions, letting Aziraphale slide into the narrow space between his body and the back of the couch. He leaned over to pick up the book from the floor and rested it on Arizaphale’s middle. The demon’s arm wrapped around him as he settled down comfortably alongside Aziraphale’s body. 

“Go on, angel, read me another.” 

And so he did.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by an unfinished Omegle RP. The co-creator disconnected before I was able to get their information. If you recognize this as a piece that we worked on together, let me know so I can give you co-author credit.


End file.
